“My client has not yet been charged with a crime, so his cooperation still has to be classified as ‘willing,’ Your Honor. We’re reasonably certain our interpretation will stand.”

“That’s right,” Franklin said roughly to Grace. “This is all going to blow over, trust me. I’m talking to people right now. Important people. One of two things is going to happen-either the case goes away completely or I become a hero. If you help me out, I can even guarantee your career won’t be negatively impacted.”

Grace gave her ex a look that had made more than one lawyer squirm. “I don’t know whether I despise you more when you’re being a politician or a crook. FYI, I don’t give a damn about judgeships or who’s who in the Fortune roundup of rich men. All I care about is Lane. What about our son?”

Franklin looked away. “What about him?”

Faroe gently grabbed Grace’s fist, the one she was going to clock Franklin with.

“We take the position,” Sturgis said, “that your son’s situation has nothing to do with the negotiations that are ongoing between my client and the government. Lane is just a rather troubled young man who is studying out of the country in a Catholic boarding school that is very stern about morals.”

Grace looked at the lawyer like he was a bad smell stuck to her shoe. “Hasn’t Ted told you about his little agreement with Carlos Calderon and Hector Rivas? Hasn’t he told-”

Faroe squeezed her hand and interrupted. “I want to hear this. Where does Lane fit in this picture, Counselor?”

Sturgis shook his head. “We haven’t mentioned Lane to the government. We think it might be wise if you refrained, too.”

“You don’t think the U.S. authorities want to know that an innocent boy is being held hostage in a foreign country in order to control his father’s actions?” Grace asked in disbelief.

Franklin and Sturgis traded glances.

The lawyer turned his back, plainly stating that he wasn’t any part of what happened next.

Franklin looked longingly at the glass he’d shattered on the sideboard. Then he sighed and faced his ex-wife.

“Why would Lane be involved?” Franklin said tonelessly. “We both know that he isn’t my son.”

Grace stared at him, too angry to speak.

“Nice work, asshole,” Faroe said, his voice as neutral as Franklin’s. “Not your DNA, so how could he be a part of this, right?”

“Who the hell are you?” Franklin said.

“The man who’s trying to save your son’s life. You should pray your knees bloody that I succeed.” Because if Lane dies, so do you.

But Faroe wasn’t going to say that in front of witnesses.

“I don’t have a son,” Franklin insisted.

“Tell it to the IRS,” Faroe said. “You took all those tax deductions for a dog named Lane?”

Grace drew in a sharp breath. She knew Faroe better than anyone in the room.

And she was afraid.

“The point is,” Sturgis said without turning around, “that Lane’s DNA puts a big hole in Grace’s theory about Lane being a hostage.”

“Right,” Franklin said quickly. “If Carlos and Hector Rivas think they can control me by holding Lane, they’ve got the wrong hostage. Once they realize it, they’ll let him go. No reason to hurt him, right?”

Franklin tried to meet Faroe’s eyes but must have decided Grace would be easier.

Wrong again.

“I guess Mother Nature knew what she was doing when she didn’t let you breed,” Grace said.

“Don’t give me that righteous act,” Franklin said. “It’s your life that’s all lies.”

Faroe still held Grace’s fist but everything in him wanted to let her loose on Franklin.

And help her.

Later. When Lane’s safe.

“Sturgis.” Faroe’s word was like a whip. “Turn around and put a muzzle on this mutt or get his lying ass out of here so that you and I can do some business.”

“Listen, you son of-” Franklin began.

“Shut it, Ted,” Sturgis said as he turned around. “This is going nowhere.”

“Your problem, not mine,” Faroe said. “As I understand it, you really need that computer, right?”

“I knew the bitch was hiding it!” Franklin snarled.

Faroe gave him a look that penetrated the four shots of whiskey Franklin had knocked back.

“Your lawyer gave you good advice,” Grace said. “Take it or go stand with your babysitters.”

Franklin looked again at Faroe, then backed off and headed for the bar.

“Do you need the whole computer, or just some data from it?” Faroe asked Sturgis.

“The entire computer would be best, but there are some lists…”

“What kind?” Grace asked.

“Deposit lists showing movement of funds from one set of offshore accounts to another,” Sturgis said.

“How are we supposed to recognize them from any other bunch of numbers that might be on the computer?” Faroe asked.

“The entire file is named ‘Plaza.’ It involves transfers from banks in Aruba and Panama to the Intercontinental Bank of Nauru.”

“Where’s that?” Grace asked.

Sturgis said, “Overseas.”

“The South Pacific,” Faroe said. “Its entire economy used to be based on bat shit-guano, to the tea party set. Then some bright schlub discovered the business of chartering international banking institutions. Now Nauru has more banks than it does citizens.”

Franklin looked over with new interest. “You sound like you know your way around.”

“Believe it,” Faroe said, but it was Sturgis he was looking at. “So don’t bullshit me and all of us just might get out of this alive.”

The drink paused halfway to Franklin’s mouth. He looked at Sturgis.

Sturgis was watching Faroe like a man who’d just discovered that guns weren’t the most dangerous things in the room.

Faroe smiled.

It didn’t make Sturgis feel better.

“If we find this file,” Faroe said, “you’ll work with us for Lane’s release.”

“Ah, we’d do what we could, yes,” Sturgis said, “without, of course, admitting that Ted-”

“Wrong answer,” Faroe cut in.

And waited.

“If you bring us that file, we’ll do everything in our power to see Lane safely into the U.S.,” Sturgis said unhappily.

Faroe looked at Grace. “I’d get it in writing, but we don’t have time to play legal games.”

Lane had twelve hours to live.

I-5, HEADED SOUTH

MONDAY, 12:35 A.M.

GRACE SAT WITH HER head against the headrest, watching cars flow by in both directions, a steel river that began at one international border and ended at another.

Faroe hadn’t tried to talk to Grace. She hadn’t tried to talk to him. There was nothing to say.

The father was safe in federal custody and the son was waiting to be executed for his father’s sins.

“Are they following us?” Grace asked Faroe finally.

“Not so far.”

“Does the fact that you’re doing ninety-eight have something to do with that?”

“Ninety-two, and I’m not the fastest car on the road.”

As if to prove it, a Lexus rocketed by on their right, pursued by a beater with Baja California plates.

Faroe checked the mirrors. “When you took the computer to Lane, did you know?”

She froze. “What do you think?”

“You didn’t know.”

Her laugh was short and harsh. “I suppose I should be grateful for your trust.”

“Actually Ted should be grateful there were witnesses back there. You would have cut him to bloody pieces with a broken glass.”

“You weren’t exactly sending him love notes.”

“I was trying to figure out an appropriate death for him.”

Grace gave Faroe a sideways look. “And?”

“Still trying.” Faroe smiled grimly. “But no matter what, I’m going to be a gentleman about it. I promise you can have your pound of flesh first.”

Grace smiled in spite of herself. What am I going to do with you, Joe?

She didn’t know she’d spoken the words aloud until Faroe said, “Ask me tomorrow.”